Hemingway’s Chair

called out to her. ‘What time did you tell him?’
    ‘There’s
spinach all over the fucking floor.’
    ‘What
time did you tell him?’
    ‘What?
Oh, seven thirty!’ Geraldine shouted back.
    There
was a faint noise outside. Marshall went across to the curtain and pulled it
aside again. ‘That’ll be him,’ he said.
    Martin
looked up quickly. An image had come powerfully into his mind. It was one of
towering waves and a lone figure strapped into a chair on the stern of a
pitching boat. ‘Nick?’ His voice was thick and barely recognisable. ‘This...
consultancy fee...’ Nick was moving to the door.
    Martin
spoke rapidly, if I were to accept it... if I were... I have to be
sure... you must promise me that the Post Office will never know.’
    Marshall
reached for the lock. ‘You’re safe, believe me.’
    ‘On
your honour?’
    Marshall
pulled the door open. Footsteps could be heard hurrying up the stairs. Marshall
turned to him again. ‘On my honour, Mart.’
    Martin
shut his eyes tight. There was a jumble of sights and sounds. The lone
fisherman turned and smiled and beckoned him. Martin opened his eyes, leaned
down to the table, picked up the envelope and slipped it quickly inside his
jacket.
    The
door opened. Martin’s heart froze.
    The
man who stood there was John Devereux, Area Co-ordinator for Post Office
Counter Services, the local boss, the hard-eyed pragmatist whose official
visits to the post office had been likened to night raids from the Gestapo.
Martin felt a sense of searing, flooding panic.
    He
rose awkwardly to his feet. He was aware only of the sudden awful enormity of
what he had done. The envelope in his inside pocket seemed to swell and expand.
He felt it tearing through the lining, rearing up and out over his lapel,
racing towards his chin like some uncontrollable erection. It must be
impossible for the South East Area Co-ordinator not to see his guilt, smell his
shame, feel his loathsomeness, sense his naked treachery. Devereux held out his
hand.
    Martin,
clammy palm cupped nervously, took hold of it. Devereux’s grip was strong and
firm, his gaze was cool and piercing, and his South Yorkshire accent was gruff
and uncompromising.
    ‘Good
to ’ave you on board, Sproale.’
     
    Martin
remained in shock for much of the subsequent meal. He hardly spoke a word, half
the time listening to Marshall, the unquenchable enthusiast, and Devereux, the
blunt layman, and the other half running his long fingers discreetly over the
slim bulge in his jacket pocket.
    Slowly,
as the wine took its effect, he began to recover his confidence. He and
Devereux were the only ones drinking and a tacit intimacy had grown between
them as the meal went on. By the time Geraldine went out to make coffee and
Marshall to make another phone call, Devereux was regarding his lowly employee
with mellow benevolence.
    He
nodded towards the study from where the faint sound of a telephone conversation
could be heard.
    ‘Genius,
that lad,’ said Devereux. ‘Fucking bloody genius.’
    Martin,
warmly full of relief and Tesco’s house claret, responded with vigorous
agreement.
    ‘That’s
why the buggers hated him,’ said Devereux.
    ‘Who
hated him?’ asked Martin, not quite following.
    ‘The
fucking Post Office.’ Devereux jabbed a finger in Marshall’s direction. ‘Just
because he was a counter clerk they couldn’t believe he had a brain.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘I
spotted him. I didn’t know Jack Shit about computers but if his system could
deliver what he promised I could see it was a damn sight better than the one we
were about to spend ten million on.’ He reached into a pocket and brought out a
packet of Henry Winterman’s cigars. There was one left.
    ‘Gerry!’
he shouted towards the kitchen. ‘You got some matches?’ Geraldine appeared
round the doorway and tossed a box of Swan Vestas hard and accurately into his
lap. ‘Ta!’
    He
looked across at Martin as he lit the stubby, unimpressive cigar. It clearly
pained him to be seen putting something so small in his mouth. ‘Used to like
’avanas, but they didn’t like me.’ He inhaled with a grimace of pleasure and
jabbed his head back towards the low sound of Marshall’s voice in the back
room.
    ‘In
six months’ time, touch wood, fingers crossed, justice will have been seen to
be done. And about bloody time.’ He sent a wreath of cigar smoke spinning
towards Martin.
    Martin
cleared his throat to avoid it looking as if he was coughing on the